


Broken Roots

by seasonschange



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Modification, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt and Feigned Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual Body Modification, hyperion being extra inhumane, lowlife tech engineer Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonschange/pseuds/seasonschange
Summary: Here at Hyperion, we believe in powerful principles. "Team work". "Unity". "Stronger together". This is why as the leading corporation in the galaxy, we are proud to introduce our latest contract requirement for every employee residing on Helios Station. As of next month, you will all be the LUCKY receptacles of the new Hyperion-issued Body Electronics.Every employee will receive a state-of-the-art ECHO-eye implant allowing coworkers an access to the Hyperion network HIVE, always accessible and specific to each department, a shortcut guaranteed to diminish the workload while simultaneously increasing efficiency. They will also be provided with a neural port for a more secure than EVER individual storage system.Please, be sure to acquire your new Hyperion-issued Body Electronics before the due date at any of the clinics available to you on the station. And welcome to a brand new world where working a desk job has NEVER been more FUN!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLzeadfN6vw).

* * *

The first time Rhys regains complete awareness happens after eight years of servile obedience.

And his first coherent thought, the first that is _entirely his own—_ is that the fingers combing through his hair feel... very nice.

The next is about how _unsettling_ it is to be alone inside his own head. He can still hear the echo of his co-workers’ minds, but it has stopped being at the forefront of his consciousness, where it used to take up all his attention every waking hour of every single day. It’s nothing but a memory now as his mind struggles to readjust to the unfamiliar emptiness. And most of all, there’s nothing left but a gaping hole where there used to be a sense of unequivocal _purpose_.

It feels like waking up in the middle of the night to unfamiliar surroundings, and Rhys is petrified by the fear of the unknown.

Then his fist clenches almost imperceptibly where it lays across his stomach, and he can't stop shivering as more and more sensations filter through his senses and assault his mind with no barrier; there's no filter anymore to keep him unaffected by the mundane, by what has no relation to his work.

To his _purpose_.

In his current state he can feel himself lying halfway across a freezing floor, with his upper body propped up on something soft and pliable keeping his neck comfortably warm. He only has to dart a quick look down at himself to realize that he's clad in his underwear and nothing else, which means he either took his uniform off or someone else stripped him of it. He doesn't remember. He also doesn't know what he's doing here—wherever 'here' is supposed to be. In fact, the more he strains, the harder it becomes to recall a single thing.

Rhys almost jumps out of his skin when his next sensation is that of his neural port being carefully, but firmly dislodged from its cavity. He doesn't experience an uncomfortable pull at the base where it should have been linked to his brain, and wonders who could have known the way to disconnect it without harming him in the process. But with or without pain, the alien sensation as it's being slowly pulled out of his skull still sends his heart racing.

He's too aware. And it's all too... _weird_.

He tries to come up with an explanation to what is happening to him, but he can barely focus and even less hold on to a single thought before it slips away from his grasp; before the next flash/impression/sensation is already assailing him. Everything is still swirling aimlessly inside his brain, his stream of consciousness springing back to an exuberant life after years of repression and there's little to nothing Rhys can do to regain control. At least, not right now. So he lets the thoughts come and go as they please, for now.

It's all he can do.

Rhys doesn't remember much between the first time he set foot on Helios Station and the present day. But somehow, the thought _"it's been eight years"_ springs out of nowhere, bright and insistent, with a quality that feels like certitude. So Rhys chooses to believe it to be true.

And in the same way he starts to remember his apartment, and the names and faces of his roommates. He even has a fleeting thought about work, and the mechanics of his daily tasks—and he knows he'll be able to get right back to it once he's back behind his desk. The unexpected return of his free will doesn't seem to have impaired him in his abilities, or damaged the invaluable skills he's spent years honing within the corporation. And that's... kind of a huge relief. It's a light at the end of the tunnel as long as his new condition remains unchanged.

He can still get away with this... maybe.

Possibly.

If he plays his cards well.

Besides those pieces of basic information, there are no other major events he's able to recall. And something tells him this may be because nothing has ever managed to break the never-ending cycle of his routine. At least, not until this day.

 _The day I woke up after years of mind control to being disassembled like a defective bot_ , he thinks, and he clamps his mouth shut before he makes the mistake of voicing the utter panic creeping up at that thought.

If it wasn't for the fingers now dancing at his temple, in what Rhys realizes is an attempt to brush the curls away from his currently _empty_ neural port—he suspects he wouldn't be able to hold this outer appearance of utter stillness much longer.

Focusing on the impersonal, yet oddly soothing touch, Rhys does his best to slow down the rhythm of his heartbeat, and remain as slack and unresponsive as possible.

"Stupid... Ugh... Piece of—"

The man—that voice sounds definitely male—speaks somewhere behind Rhys, and Rhys pinches his lips tightly shut in reflex. It's obvious the man is talking to himself, but the sound of his voice came out completely unexpected, and Rhys doesn't trust himself not to react by blurting something out. Something that will certainly raise the other man's suspicions, and only bring Rhys even _more_ trouble.

Because his state, his _clarity_ of mind has got to be an already huge breach of his contract. In all its unfairness and horror—Rhys still remembers putting his signature at the end of the document that conceded all the rights to his psyche to Hyperion.

If Rhys had known everything that would entail... he wonders if his past self would still have agreed to those terms.

"Alright," the man mutters a little louder somewhere above him, "ya better not die on me now, champ. Got it?"

Rhys catches himself before he can nod like the obedient little salary man he's become.

_Shit._

“You snapping out of it yet?”

_Snapping—what?_

Something shifts underneath him, before nudging him in the ribs—it doesn’t hurt, but it certainly jostles him a little. It’s the man’s leg, he realizes belatedly, although not entirely sure of his guess.

He must be resting in the man’s lap.

“Hmm, you’re not getting much more responsive, that’s a shame. Wasn’t expecting that… but there’s _nothing_ to worry about, kid, this is just a, uhhh, let’s call it a minor setback!"

* * *

 

After a moment of listening to the unidentified sounds of someone tinkering nearby, Rhys' mind starts drifting despite himself, his newfound liberty of thought still hard to get a good hold onto. 

"Goddamned thing… won’t open… Shit, alright then, on to the friggin'... ’cus this should definitely… Hmmm."

 _It's a nice voice_ , Rhys thinks to himself, and not for the first time. He's heard it before, but it's a little hard to remember the context, or who it belongs to in the first place. So Rhys gives up pretty fast on that mystery.

He wishes he could say something back, provide some sort of companionship, maybe ask for reassurance that what is currently happening is regulation and nothing too sordid; that everything will be alright... but luckily he thinks better of doing any of that _pretty_ fast.

He glances up, but all he can see in his current position with his right cheek pressed to whatever he's resting against is a portion of what looks like a small workshop, the ground scattered with various tools. And if he really forces it, he can almost distinguish something that looks like the curve of a shoulder.

Bright yellow. Certainly Hyperion.

This is when it hits him that the man’s someone from the Tech department, and this is one of the mandatory check-ups of the Body Electronics every worker is required to go through on a weekly basis, beside the scheduled visits to the clinic.

But despite that very plausible explanation, many details do not compute—they're not at work, or at any of the clinics on Helios for all that matter. And most of all, he's been manually disconnected from the HIVE and Rhys is pretty sure that _that_ has never happened before.

He still decides not to say anything, or attempt to make any other sort of contact with this Tech guy. It's simply too dangerous; Rhys has heard of other workers who've been ‘terminated’ for far lesser transgressions than this one.

Rhys' survival instincts have always been his main asset, and the main reason why he chose a comfortable position in a company such as Hyperion—instead of a life down there, in the Pandoran hellhole.

And it's those same instincts that push him to keep his mouth firmly shut.

* * *

 

Rhys lies down for an uncertain amount of time and lets the Tech guy do whatever he's been assigned to do, however strange and uncomfortable and unusual it feels. He forces himself to relax against the other man, and convey as much as possible the impression that he's still the same brainless zombie.

After he's done with Rhys' neural port, the man sets it down carefully on a folded blanket next to them.

“There must be a secondary link, then… _somewhere_ … damn it…”

When he reaches for his prosthesis next, Rhys closes his eyes by reflex and braces himself. Despite the care he’s shown so far, the man strikes him as someone who’s barely keeping it together, and chances are high he’s going to take his frustrations out on Rhys’ arm.

But to his surprise, the man detaches it instead with the same quick, efficient movements.

Now that the arm’s come off, the sensation of being lighter than a bag of feathers is jarring when paired with the void inside his head. He feels like he’s been hollowed out, and there’s nothing left of him but skin.

Movement on Rhys’ right attracts his attention, and he watches as the man plugs his metal arm into a scanning device. This, and what little Rhys has been able to gather from all the random shit the guy keeps mumbling suggest the man's looking into Rhys' electronics for something.

And it's not an unusual procedure in the off chance that a worker has caught some kind of malware from navigating the ECHOnet, so it's an explanation Rhys is all too willing to accept. Everything else must be nothing but a side-effect, and it might even fix itself once he's reconnected to the HIVE.

Deep inside, Rhys hopes that it's the case. He's probably a coward for wishing something so crazy, but he'd rather the Tech guy put him right back into the system. It's the only way he can remain on the station, and more importantly—the only way he can remain alive and safe, in a workplace he belongs. It's only been a few days, but there are memories of being praised for his efficiency, so Rhys knows without a doubt that his promotion to personal assistant of the President of Security is well deserved.

 _I can’t give this up_.

There's still a life of comfort and prestige waiting for him that he’s fought too long for, and sacrificed too much to risk losing.

“That should do the trick,” the man mutters under his breath.

 _Let this all be a passing nightmare_ , Rhys prays. Frantically. _Let me forget about this soon._

Trying not to betray his sudden lack of a proper balance now that the heavy prosthesis has been removed, Rhys almost startles again when the gentle touch is back. This time, the fingers slide under his chin, and nudge his head up, up, up until he's finally looking at the other man.

Upside down.

_Oh, that’s… familiar?_

"Hey there, cupcake. You seem to be holding up well so far.”

The guy gazes back at him, and Rhys has the fleeting thought that although his eyes are mismatched like half the population of Helios—it is not, as he'd expected, because of any sort of implant.

This guy's not linked to the HIVE, nor does he appear to have any electronics other than the mask covering his face.

Only the top brass had been spared the body modifications.

Rhys puts two and two together—slower than usual because of his muddled brain—and comes to the conclusion that this man has to be a high-ranking member of the Hyperion elite and not, as he'd thought, some lowlife guy from the Tech department.

Which begs the question: what the _hell_ was he doing with Rhys?

"Can you hear me?"

_Yes._

"Oh, fine!” The man _snaps_ at him, the unexpected mood swing startling Rhys into flinching back—but fortunately for him the near imperceptible gesture goes unnoticed. “It's coming out, too, then!"

Cryptic as always, the man lets go of Rhys only to grab a hold of his throat, almost like he's... trying to choke him?

Then the man's free hand is looming above his face, with a scary-looking instrument clutched in his long fingers, and it becomes clear that he's only being held like this to keep him steady. The instrument looks like a flashlight, but with an empty socket at the top and Rhys recognizes it as an eye-extractor that's about to first unlock his eye with a specific electromagnetic signature, and then pull it out thanks to the magnet implanted under the pupil.

 _Deep, calming breaths_ , he reminds himself sternly, doing his best not to start blinking erratically in anticipation.

Or do something equally stupid as scream at the guy to just _stop_.

* * *

 

The ECHO-eye implant comes off without a hitch, as does the hand around his throat.

Once the world around Rhys has dimmed to only half it could be, the man slides a thumb over his gaping eye to help him shut it, and protect the sensitive area from any contamination. Rhys is grateful for the gesture, but he doesn't voice it out loud. He simply lets the gratitude radiate through him, because somehow, all these small gestures are synonym of someone who _knows_ what they're doing. This isn't some morbid experiment perpetrated in a bored higher-up's secret lab.

Rhys still has no clue what this is truly about, but at least he's sure of being in capable hands that won't let him come to harm.

That is, until the man curses above him, and rather colorfully.

"Still nothing?! _God damn it!"_

He throws something against the wall, and Rhys hopes that wasn't his implant he just heard shatter into pieces.

"Can you hear me, now? Hey, hey hey! Snap out of it, kiddo!"

The man pulls him with up by the armpit, and then turns him around. Rhys belatedly notices that his legs are bound together at the ankles, like he's expected to make a dash for it at any moment. What an incongruous thought.

In any case, the deceivingly soft rope makes it harder to move his legs the way he wants them to, digging a little more into his calves with every move he makes and when he can't do much more than follow the other man's lead clumsily he decides he doesn't care, and lets his feet drag behind him limply. Like a puppet that's been discarded by its puppeteer.

The man grunts unhappily, and manhandles him until he's lying on his stomach across the man's lap.

Then slowly, making it seem like an afterthought instead of a decision, Rhys rises to his knees until he's level with the other man, and looks him in the eyes. It’s hard to find his balance when he’s missing an arm, but the man’s shoulder offers enough support and he doesn’t seem to mind when Rhys goes ahead and holds onto it.

He's careful to keep his gaze neutral, and just this side of unfocused. However, with one eye currently tightly shut, he doesn’t have to try too hard.

When the man grabs his cheek, providing unexpected but welcome support, it takes everything in Rhys to not lean into the touch.

"Come on! Wakey, wakey!"

The masked man then uses the same hand to slap him across the face.

Repeatedly.

 _Was that really necessary?_ Rhys wonders blearily as he struggles to keep his gaze on one of the upper hinges of the man’s mask. The warmth following each blow lasts longer than the sting, spreading out along his cheekbone like a rising tide. The man doesn’t hit him very hard, but it’s like fireworks going off right under his skin.

It’s more than he remembers feeling over the last decade.

Rhys’ capacity of experiencing both pain and pleasure was never impeded by the HIVE—he remembers that much. But it was dampened to the point that his nervous system would barely register the difference between the presence, and the absence.

Being back in full possession of his conscious makes a _world_ of difference.

There’s nothing to block the apprehension anymore, and the embarrassment of being treated with all the respect reserved for an annoying _pet_.

His thighs are also starting to cramp from holding this uncomfortable position so long, and the pressure on his knees is bordering on excruciating. But fearful of the alternative if he offers any form of resistance, or shows that he can’t take it—he fights off the urge to brace himself every time the man raises his hand, and only lets his head loll to the side instead.

Luckily, the man gives up on that tactic of interrogation soon enough, and after a few more pleas to "snap out of it already, damn it, how can this _still_ work"—the man finally gives up.

He sets Rhys down on his back, but this time he's lying across the floor and not in the man's lap. Rhys can hear him stand up and pace around the room in apparent agitation, kicking pieces of furniture or hurling them at the wall. Rhys tries not to flinch, and not to let show on his face how deeply uncomfortable and troubled he truly feels.

_Just… what the hell is going on._

"Fine," the man eventually huffs like a disgruntled kid who didn't get to have his way.

He drops back to the floor next to Rhys with a loud _thump._

"I'll find another way!"

* * *

 

The process of reassembling him is just as slow and methodical as the opposite manoeuvre, and slowly but surely Rhys’ heart rate slows down to its usual pace. There’s something inexplicably peaceful in watching another person take charge of everything, expecting no help in return.

So Rhys lies stock-still, and watches with a serene expression on his face as the other man goes back to work. And it’s only partially an act.

The arm goes back first, and Rhys expects to be shaken like a sack of potatoes when it doesn't perfectly fit with its socket at the first try. But now that the man seems to have calmed down, he is just as patient as he was in the beginning, and he merely twists it this and that way until it finally slides in, and attaches itself to his body with three soft clicking sounds.

The arm hums back to life, and Rhys doesn't think—he simply flexes his fingers a couple of times.

And freezes when he realizes what he's done.

"Yeah, stretch it good and tell me if anything feels out of sorts."

Rhys swallows the lump in his throat with great effort. And after two deep breaths, he’s able to relax once more. Of _course_ he can still move around! Sure he used to be a brainless drone, but he was never a _dummy._ He can move around, and even talk—as long as it's as detached and work-related as possible.

"Yes, sir," he answers quietly.

The man is suddenly very still behind him for just a fraction of a moment—then he's back to reassembling Rhys.

After the arm comes the ECHO-eye. The procedure takes longer, and the man curses the place up and down until it's over. Once the eye's back inside, Rhys blinks over the unfeeling implant and waits for it to come back online.

Finally, there's a pressure at his head when the man pushes him to lie on his right cheek again, exposing his left temple. Rhys follows the silent instruction, and closes his eyes at the first sensation of cold, hard metal being slid slowly back into place.

A whimper escapes him when the man makes a mistake somewhere halfway in, and the neural port brushes against something highly sensitive that it shouldn't have disturbed in the first place.

Almost immediately, there's a hand rubbing him gently at the juncture between neck and shoulder, easing out the discomfort and the fear. Rhys has never been so aware of someone else's touch, _starving_ for it the moment their skin touched.

And in that moment, he realizes that he's changed his mind. He can barely recall the person he used to be, back before the implants took over his capacity to exercise his free will. And a returning to the HIVE would mean losing himself, once again. Losing the very last scraps of his own identity that he has left.

Dying... all over again.

But the memories he wishes he could immortalize are not even that special. They're not about work efficiency. They're not about the common good. They're not about Hyperion.

They're simply thoughts about those hands, and how big and warm they are. How they can inflict pain—as well as convey the kind of care and stability amidst chaos that the HIVE could only try to imitate, but never provide.

How a stranger’s careful touch was enough to bring him back to life.

_I want to remember how this felt._

This is Rhys' last thought—his last wish as the neural implant is reconnected, and the overwhelming murmur of the HIVE trickles back in.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Down on Elpis, in a strictly confidential location deep underground, a Hyperion technician is standing gaping at one of the screens lining the walls, a cup of coffee long forgotten on the console.

The error message flashing in the middle of the expanse of code isn’t that alarming in itself. Viruses and other malwares can sometimes attempt to disrupt parts of the HIVE, and her responsibility whenever one has been detected is to destroy the program in question and then trace back the source if possible.

Afterwards, it is Hyperion’s business only whether or not they want to annihilate the pirates behind the virus.

But if she’s reading this one correctly, it’s suggesting a disruption  _ within _ the HIVE—not an attack coming from a foreign object. And it can’t be a bug either, since the error code is all wrong.

Times like these, she’s grateful not to be a part of the network. It only feels safe for those already inside the system—but  _ she _ knows what it looks like on the outside, millions of miles away from Helios. And it isn’t safe, or beautiful at all.

It’s a prison made out of human minds, and it’s her job, along with her colleague from night shift to look after the servers powering the HIVE, and pore over every line of code streaming down the screens packing the main room of the bunker. If they don’t, hundreds of thousands of lives could be in real jeopardy. If the HIVE was to collapse, and all of Hyperion shocked back into reality with no preliminary measures to ensure a safe disconnection between mind and computer—it could kill them all on the spot. In an instant, Helios Station could turn into a mass grave.

That’s at least what President Tassiter keeps hammering home—one of the four only people in possession of the coordinates to the place where the HIVE servers are stored.

So if something suspicious, and potentially very dangerous is taking place up on Helios Station, it’s her duty to pass on the information to her superiors. Namely, the head of the Security Department, and the President of Hyperion himself.

Pulling her own monitor closer, she opens her latest report, and erases the formal _‘nothing to report’_ content. In its place, she types in the error code followed by the data displayed on the first screen where the message written in bright red is still flickering ominously.

It’s only a line that provides with a location, a timestamp and an ID. That data and the unusual error code are nothing but gibberish to someone who’s never set foot on the station, but she trusts Henderson and Tassiter will know what to do with that information. 

Once she’s done, she makes sure to label the report as _‘URGENT'_  before sending it, even though she holds no hope that the Hyperion administration has evolved for the best over the years. The committee will probably take their time getting to the review of the moon reports, so secure in their belief that nothing could possibly endanger such a reinforced closed circuit as the HIVE.

She can only pray this anomaly doesn’t blow out of proportion in the meantime. 

* * *

 


End file.
